When I wake up, the first thing I do is check my reflection in the mirror. The glowing counter hovering just above my head reads 6. Fuck. That’s not enough spoons.
I do the calculations. Six spoons, so six activities to last me through the day until I can sleep and recharge. One will be used to drink water, one to eat a meal. Assuming I go to the toilet maybe twice, that doesn’t leave much wiggle room. I had hoped to call my doctor today, but that’s not looking likely.
They had other names, back when the counters first appeared, but those were all technical and complicated, and when someone came up the nickname ‘spoons,’ it stuck. Nobody knows what causes them, or why they suddenly came into the world a little over a century ago, transforming humanity forever. The scientists have their theories, but none are perfect. Lots of religious people think it was God, and a decent proportion of the population blame aliens. Sometimes, I think they might be onto something, but mostly I’m too tired to care why exactly we have them. I’m more worried about how I’m going to get through the day ahead of me with only six of the bloody things.
Charlie hears me stirring and comes into the room. He’s been up since dawn. It’s always been his favorite time of day. The number above his head reads 63 spoons, even though he’s probably already made breakfast and done his yoga routine. He grimaces when he sees my number.
“Not a good day?” he sighs. I shake my head. He slides into bed, beneath the covers I’m buried in, pulls me up until my head is resting on his shoulder.
“Do you want breakfast?” He asks. I shake my head again. I’m hungry, but I’ll only have the capacity for one meal today, and I should at least try to save it for later.
“Let me know if you need anything.” He kisses me on the forehead then goes downstairs to do whatever it is he does with his day. Working, maybe cleaning. It is not a glamorous life he lives, and yet I am filled with envy.
When we moved in, we were planning to paint all the walls of the house different colors. I remember the day we did the living room, this beautiful deep marigold color that practically glows when the sunlight catches it. I found specks of yellow paint on my clothes for weeks afterwards, but it was worth it.
My spoons deficiency meant we never got round to the bedroom. Charlie offered to do it by himself, but I told him I’d find the smell of paint too disturbing. This isn’t true; it’s more that I couldn’t bear to watch him do it without me, the memories of better times taunting me like childhood bullies on the playground. The bedroom walls remain an uninspiring white and I barely see the living room anyway. So it goes.
Some things do not take up any spoons, though these vary person to person. Most people can talk just fine. My mother could cook without it costing a thing, and if you’re one of the lucky people who really loves their job, you might get that for free too.
I am not one of those people. I am ostensibly a freelance writer and editor, but days I have the spoons to work are increasingly rare.
The things I can do for free are as follows: I can speak, I can think, I can write. I can look at my phone, although I try not to do that too much, for my sanity more than anything else. I can cuddle Charlie, but I cannot kiss him without sacrificing a spoon. If I have one spoon left at the end of the day, I will use that to brush my teeth. If I have two, I will brush my teeth and then kiss him.
I reach for my notebook and pencil, which are always kept on my bedside table, within arm’s reach. Everything in this room is designed to conserve my energy—next to the notebook is a toothbrush, pre-prepared with toothpaste, and a packet of baby wipes. Along the floor by the side of my bed are liter bottles of water, with the sachets of electrolytes already added. In the drawer is a selection of granola bars, chocolates and meal replacement drinks. I try to eat healthily, but if I can only manage one or two meals a day, I need to prioritize getting enough calories into my body to keep it functioning. If, I suppose, you can call this functioning.
We don’t yet know what’s wrong with me, but my spoon count has been well below average for some years now. Most people get between 50 and 100 a day, but I’m lucky to hit the double digits. A couple times last summer I woke up with ones or twos and had to be hospitalized, just in case. Getting into the negative spoons can be fatal.
I’m tested regularly, trialing experimental medications. I’m on the wait list for one that is rumored online to have had promising results, and if I could just call my doctor, I might be able to speed up the process of joining the trial. It has risks, I’m told, but I think I’m beyond the point where those matter.
I spend the morning working on my stories, as I always do. The problem is that whilst writing comes freely to me, editing does not. I have written thousands of stories, but I never get past the first draft, my words are never as polished as I know they truly could be. Charlie tells me I should put them out there anyway, but I’ve always been a perfectionist and even now, when perfection is no longer an option, the habit has stuck.
The other problem is that good writing requires actually living. There is nothing as inspiring as simply going outside and watching people, the world. There is a window in my bedroom, but I live on a quiet street where the most interesting things are the foxes scavenging the bins. Lots of my stories are about foxes these days.
Charlie checks in on me throughout the day, making sure I have all I need. He’s unfailingly sweet, and I wonder for the thousandth time why he puts up with me. I go to the toilet around noon. I drink one of my bottles of water and hope it will last me through the rest of the day. At 3 p.m., I watch the children start to return from school. They chase each other, play games. Even after a full day of learning, most of them have numbers enough to enjoy their evenings.
It’s almost crueler that I can remember what that was like. Unlike some, I wasn’t born with low spoons. Up until I was about 20, I was quite normal. I used to play sports. I used to love going out and dancing all night long. I met Charlie on one of those late nights, and we danced until the sun came up, and when he kissed me, I didn’t have to worry about the number above my head. I know what it is like to live, to truly live. I can even write about it; I just can’t do it.
I go to the toilet again. A fox sprints across the road, running from something I can’t see. I make my mind up. Perhaps I will have to forego eating, but I phone my doctor.
The phone rings out. He doesn’t pick up. “No,” I whisper; then getting louder. “No, no, no!”
The counter above my head ticks from 3 to 2. I want to scream but don’t dare risk losing another spoon. Charlie’s heard me anyway.
“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” He runs up the stairs. He can run.
“He didn’t pick up,” I sniffle. “I wasted a spoon.”
“You should have asked me to call first,” he said. He wasn’t trying to be unkind, but his words stung.
“What, because I can’t even make a phone call by myself?”
“Because the risk is greater for you than for me,” he says gently. It is 5 p.m., and his counter is still at 15. We have had this argument before.
“I hate it,” I say. “I want to be normal.”
“I know.” He strokes my hair.
“I’m going to call again,” I say.
“You’ll only have one spoon left,” he replies. “It’s risky.”
“I know,” I say. I think of my thousands of stories, all unfinished. I think of kissing Charlie without worrying about it, of deserving his love. I think about chasing the foxes away from the bins.
“You call first,” I say finally. “But if he picks up, I want to talk to him.
